Albeclif
by Polemarch
Summary: Its 1885, 30 years after the abolition of Veela Slavery. A wedding is to be held at Albeclif, seat of the Lestrange Family. Sirius Black is to be married to the beautiful Dementia Lestrange, unifying the richest families in Wizarding Britain. But amidst suspicions of a continuing slave trade, a murder occurs. Auror Albert Longbottom is on the case.


High Society. I've always hated High Society. The treacherous words and the wagging tongues and everyone poised to stab a dagger in your back. I'd rather a booth at the Leaky Cauldron with my fellow aurors any day. Then I might have something to talk about. Quidditch, the bloody minister, anything. But I hate high society and there is no higher society than the Lestranges.

As the head of the Aurors office's Anti-Slave Trading Team, and seventh in line to house Longbottom, I can't very well decline an invitation to the wedding of Dementia Lestrange. The Lestranges were one of the most prestigious families on both sides of the channel. Supposedly the wedding would be the largest social event to hit Wizarding Britain since the defeat of l'Ombre at Duffel in 1815, seventy years ago. To Sirius Black as well, the two richest families in Wizarding England marrying - it would be a sight to see. Even the Potters, blood-sworn enemies to the Lestranges were rumoured to be attending.

It might be fun too. Except that I hate parties. And people, I hate them too.

I looked up from the letter of invitation. I contemplated opening up a bottle of Firewhiskey stashed under my desk. But that would only stave off the inevitable. I sighed, shoulders shaking, as I took up a quill from my desk and began to compose a letter to the aforementioned family.

As I started to write, hands scribbling out a letter, I noticed that a folder had fallen under my desk. Bending down, I picked up a file marked only as Slave Trade. A fallen marker had a note reading- Lestrange. I had forgotten about that lead. I opened the folder, leaving my letter forgotten on my desk.

Suddenly I heard a sharp rapping at the door. A certain mangy looking fellow stood there, cheap long coat and black top hat. Scraggly black hair fell out of the hat, and the beginnings of a beard poked out of sallow cheeks.

"Mr. Prince, how... wonderful to see you again," Looking at Maurice Prince, any man with a lick of sense would have assumed he was a barkeep or cabby, not anything that required any sort of expertise. Such instincts were wrong in his case. The man was a genius; I had heard genuine St. Mungo's healers call him a prodigy and a master of the healing arts.

"Albert." He stepped into the house without invitation and strode to my desk, picking up folders and prying through my personal effects, every so often his shoulders would shake and tremble as he coughed a terrible hacking cough. Finally he picked up my file on the slave trading leads.

I started to speak but I suppose I didn't quite know how to express the rudeness that impelled him to walk into someone's house without invitation and begin to root through the belongings of the host. I finally began to sort through my thoughts.

"Now see here-" I started to say. Before I could go any further I was blocked by his voice.

"This does not make sense," he said in a quiet voice, almost a mutter but not quite. He coughed once more, a hint of blood remained on his ratty coat.

"What does not make sense?" I asked, walking around and looking over his shoulder and staring at where his eyes were rooted.

Suspects said that there had only been sporadic contact with their relatives in France since the ban on Veela Slavery in the UK. Veela prostitution has surged in recent years despite the ban, and one wonders where the Veela are coming from.

"I distinctly remember an article in the Prophet, a few years ago, December 8th 1879 I believe, Society page. The Lestranges attended a banquet with their relatives across the globe, looking to reunite the family. A follow up story two years later claimed the banquet to have become an annual activity. " The man's eyes might have been spelled to stone, stuck to a certain unremarkable passage.

"A family reunion is hardly suspect," I picked up another letter. "The Lestranges still import wines and cheeses on a small scale, they are probably simply shoring up old trade ties." I didn't believe what I said but I wasn't paid to speculate. Mr. Prince shrugged and with a nasty cough, sat down in the desk in front.

"Whatever you'd like to believe, Mr. Longbottom," He said. "You know as well as I do that the Lestranges were the largest slavers in Britain. Old Habits die hard."

"Old habits aren't new evidence." But they were important. "The Lestranges are clean Mr. Prince. Everything seems to point to them having given up their wicked ways."

"Well then." Prince gave me a measuring stare, as if silently judging the justice system to be lacking. He abruptly changed the topic. "I'd suppose you've been invited, Mr. Longbottom?"

"To what?" I was by this time quite sure that Mr. Prince was touched in the head.

"To Albeclif." He put his hand to his brow, as if I was being dense. "For Miss Lestrange's wedding."

I slumped down in my seat. "Yes, I have been invited. Have you?" I couldn't imagine he had been invited. The Lestranges were sticklers on who was who on the social pecking order, and Mr. Prince was very far from the top.

"Why yes in fact," He said, his thousand yard stare boring into my skull. "I had helped Dementia with some… problems a few months ago. She has remained grateful for my discretion." He coughed once more, shoulders shaking and chest trembling.

"Sir," I asked, polite as possible. "What is the problem, why did you come here?"

"There are many problems right now," He said in his raspy voice. "And I believe it all comes back to this."

Prince held up a picture of a glassy eyed veela in chains. I sighed, realizing with the benefit of hindsight that I should have opened the firewhiskey.


End file.
